


100 word warmups

by LaughterWrites



Category: Original Work, lmao no fandoms here just my garbage
Genre: Drabble, Drabble Collection, Laughter’s writing dump, Warmup
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2019-02-19 10:07:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13121517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaughterWrites/pseuds/LaughterWrites
Summary: It’s just a bunch of my warmups.Most of them are about nature or just the beauty of existing.Sometimes they’re about people I love or things I find pretty.Occasionally they’re requests from friends.they’re all exactly 100 words the Archive just  counted the hearts as words for whatever reason.





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> Whoops i’m rewriting most of the fics I’ve posted so I wanted to post some new content for my 18 subscribers. Y’all are cool <3

His words are slow. Not boring, not drawn out, just slow. Hypnotizing. His voice is deep but not distractingly so. He talks with an air of knowledge, of wisdom gathered over a long life. He talks about the world, about trees and air and life. His words don’t fill you with joy or excitement or anger. They simply make you think. You think about the trees. You think about air. You think about life. You feel every breath and hear every flutter of a leaf. You are surrounded by life. You’re filled with life. His soft, soothing voice surrounds you.

**♥︎**

Standing in a redwood forest, it is quiet. The swish of leaves, maybe. A bird, pecking. Your own huffing when the trail’s steep. But almost nothing else. It’s a soothing silence, punctuated by the soft breaths of nature. You look up, at trees hundreds of feet taller than you. Hundreds of years older than you. Filled with old souls with old knowledge and old memories. They have so many stories to tell. They have so much to teach you. They want to tell you about life, about being big, about meditating for hundreds of years. But you are still small. 

♥︎

The grass bows to the wind, fluttering softly as it makes its way past. The flower’s petals wave as the wind passes by, a flurry of colors mixing as they please. The clovers and dandelions and willow branches flutter as the breeze goes. Once it leaves, everything is still again. Occasionally there’s a whisper, far away, as the breeze says hello to another part of the field. The grass is still, and soft, and green. Sometimes bowing when pushed down by a bug. The flowers are still, beautiful on their own. The clovers and dandelions and willow branches are still.

♥︎

i don’t understand.  
It’s the confusion that’s the worst part.  
I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t know why.  
I want it to stop.  
I don’t know what’s happening. I look around, not wildly, although i want to. i want to scream, shake my head around, beg to know what’s happening. I’m not sure what’s stopping me.  
Honestly, i’m not sure about much of anything.  
I don’t know what’s happening. I think i’m in pain.  
I want this to be over. I want this to be over. I don’t know what this is.  
Make it stop.  
make it stop.  
please. 

♥︎

The pencil hits paper but no words are formed. No ideas spout from his mind like they normally would. He is stuck.  
The paint brush’s colors aren’t right.  
Too blue? Too red?  
The eraser didn’t do a good enough job. the mistakes are still there.  
The water spilled, blurring the colors and shapes and words.  
None of the books seem any good. Not one of hundreds and hundreds stacked on the shelf.  
Can’t decide between this fabric or that for the last petticoat.  
Can’t find the piece that finishes the puzzle.  
Choking on a line practiced a hundred times.  
Stuck. 

♥︎

I sit cross legged in the middle of the floor. The fan is low in the background. The trees outside make soft sounds as animals and wind pass through. I take a deep breath. I don’t hear the fan or the trees anymore. I take another breath. I let it out slow. My mind begins to wander. I think of paper butterflies. I think of books and words and the people I love. I take a deep breath. I let it out slow. I think of everything that makes me happy. In that moment, that quiet moment, I am happy.

♥︎

Sometimes I hate my words.  
It seems like every time I reread my old works, even ones i’m very proud of, I find new flaws.  
I read things written by those I love. Instead of being proud of them I get jealous.  
I know that i’m flawed.  
I know that I’m not going to get better with hate, jealousy, and judgement.  
But sometimes it’s very hard to be positive.  
Sometimes I’m filled with hatred and anger and jealousy and other disgusting emotions that hurt so so badly.  
More than anything I want to stay positive.  
Negativity won’t help me improve.

♥︎

it hurts so bad. So, so horribly bad. I don’t know whether to grab my head or my chest. I don’t know what to do. i’m panicking. i’m panicking. I grab my hair and pull. I pull hard. I scream. i don’t know what i’m saying. I scream louder. I don’t know where it hurts. Everywhere. Everywhere.  
I fall to my side. The ground is cold. The ground is cold and sticky. The ground is cold and sticky and wet. I can’t get up. I can’t move. It hurts so bad. I pull harder. It doesn’t stop. I scream louder. 

♥︎

Boring.

  
One second. Two. Three. Four. Five seconds. Six. Seven. Eight.

  
Even more than that.

  
One minute. Two. Three. Four.

  
An hour. Two. Three. Four.

  
Days, weeks, months, years, decades, centuries, millennia.

  
One. 

  
Two.

  
Three.

  
Four.

  
Eventually the numbers go away.

  
The numbers disappear into the infinity. Something humans cannot process. Something we didn’t exist long enough to put a name on.

  
Numbers we didn’t reach.

  
They continue after our last breaths. They do not stop to mourn.

  
They go on and on and on.

  
But sometimes, of course, we lose count.

  
And then we’re back to one.

  
Two.

  
Three. 

♥︎

Sugar and colors and warm clothes.  
But not yet.  
Smiles and hugs and big trees.  
Very soon I’ll be able to.  
Books and teas and reflections in spoons.  
We’ll do it tomorrow.  
Shiny bowls and laughter.  
Soon, promise.  
Gooey cookies and extra chocolate chips.  
We’ll find the time.  
Big grandfather clocks and egg timers.  
Counting down.  
Bouncing on my heels.  
Gooey cookies and sugar.  
Trees and warmth and love.  
Books and silly faces and friends.  
Tick.  
Tock.  
Tick.  
Waiting, waiting, waiting.  
Bouncing, pacing, trying to sleep.  
Soon, soon, soon.  
Sweets and smiles and happiness  
We’ll do it soon, I promise. 


	2. sup ya fucks i’m sad again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my name is Laughter i’m a mess and i’m falling in love 
> 
> let’s get this shitshow started
> 
> This chapter has content suggested (intentionally or otherwise) by them:  
> Carrot  
> Luna  
> Lorical  
> The unidentifiable voice coming from my wig heads  
> Jade  
> and Z

someone perfect is out there.  
Too bad they have a lot of lookalikes.  
Deceptive doppelgängers  
meant for someone else.  
someone perfect is out there.  
The perfect height for holding hands. The perfect voice to talk to you as you fall asleep. The perfect mouth to kiss and kiss and kiss. Happy kisses and success kisses and just-because kisses.  
Someone perfect is out there.  
Sometimes it takes some work to find them.  
They’re not going to be the first one you find.  
or the second.  
maybe not even the sixtieth.  
But they’re out there.  
They’re getting heartbroken too.  
You’ll find them. 

♥︎

It’s weird.  
Floating through space. Just me and my vegetable. Or perhaps he’s a root. I haven’t asked him. He’s simply there. Perhaps only a vehicle, taking me nowhere. Perhaps he is a companion, who cannot speak, cannot do much more than exist beneath me. Nevertheless he is here. My potato and I. Time never ends here, though my concept of it is long gone. I suppose you could say it’s only been a moment. Though I suspect i’ve spent many years atop this potato in the endless void of space. I should ask him if he is a root. 

♥︎

She sits in her car with the mirror down, fixing her bright red lipstick. The car next to her has loud music playing, but the thumping beat is the only thing she can hear. The wind outside is rough, the trees are being pushed nearly as far as they can go. She can barely hear the harsh winds, though. Only a rushing sound in the background. Sometimes it rocks her car a bit and she has to pause so that her makeup doesn’t smear. She’s meeting friends at the restaurant down the road whose lights she can see from here.

♥︎

It’s the call of something awful. Anything awful.  
I want to be struck by tragedy. It’s an unhealthy craving, I know, but i can hardly help it. Like a drug. All of my core longs to have some sort of bump in my perfect pretty life without a blemish or stain. Maybe i’ll survive a bullet to the head. Or be held hostage, the police rescuing me only barely. Something, anything, just make it big. Dramatic. I can hardly handle my life how it is now. i need something new, something jarring in my cookie cutter life. I crave catastrophe. 

♥︎

The world is gorgeous.  
I love colors. I love the way leaves look when they fall and the way trees stand, very big, so much bigger than me. I love my shiny red lipsticks that make me look like a slut. I love my soft pastel skirts that i never wear out. I love the look in people’s eyes when they’re excited to see you. I love the way people stand and walk and hold themselves. I love sparkly bath bombs and dripping candles. I love poppies and lotuses and the moon when she’s big and bright.  
Everything’s so pretty. 


End file.
